Crimson Stains the White Fur Darkly
by Sholio
Summary: A brief story about Elendira the Crimsonnail, based on her first appearance in the manga.


Crimson Stains the White Fur Darkly   
_Forgive me. This is my pathetic attempt to write a fanfic about a character I've barely even *seen*. My sole exposure to Elendira the Crimsonnail (a character who isn't in the anime at all) is 3 panels at the end of Trigun Maximum 4 (in a language I don't really understand, I might add), an English-language translation of some recent issues of the comic (sans pictures), and one fanart pic on a Japanese website. What can I say. I liked the lady enough I wanted to write about her._

She's a member of the Gung-Ho Guns, her weapon is a set of gigantic spikes (which I've never seen, so I have no idea how she carries them around) and she has blond hair. And she's not really a... but I shouldn't say that, it's a spoiler. That's all I know. All else is wild speculation.

Trigun, its characters and world are copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours.   
  
  
Crimson Stains the White Fur Darkly By Sholio  
  
  


"You are so beautiful," the man said to me.

I smiled, and that smile was a calculated thing. I knew which muscles I should use before I felt them tug at my perfect skin. Even though it was so dark he could probably not see my face, old habits die hard.

Men have told me I have a smile to die for.

He was about to discover this.

The man leaned back on the bed, sweating in the heat of the small, dark room. The old mattress creaked under his hips and stank of ancient urine, ancient whiskey, ancient semen. I sniffed the air, letting the stench wash over me, along with the heat and the dryness.

Even in the hottest part of the year, I never get all vulgar and sweaty. That's because I know how to relax and let everything wash over me: heat, cruelty, darkness, blood.

The man panted in the heat and unbuttoned his shirt, clumsy with booze. He'd downed most of a bottle, while I only sipped at my drink. I know better than to let anything go to my head.

"Wait," I whispered, leaning over him and letting my breath ruffle his hair. "Just a minute."

"Watsamatter?" he mumbled, as I rose and went to the window. "Need to get... you know? Protection? I hate those things. Just gets in the way."

I smiled, but for myself this time, into the darkness, and it was not at all the same smile I show to the world. "No," I told him without turning around. "We don't need that. It's a bit stuffy in here. I'd like some air."

"Whatever pulls your wagon, sweetheart."

I knocked at the stuck window with the flat of my hand and managed to wedge it halfway open. A dry desert breeze stirred my hair -- hotter, if possible, than the stuffy air in the loft. I took a deep, cleansing breath. Music drifted up to my ears from the open door of the saloon below us: a saxophone playing an old, sad tune from the lost world.

"You better not start without me over there, sweetheart," the man chuckled behind me.

"Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't dream--"

I have fast reflexes -- legendary, in fact, even among the Gung-ho Guns. I have been told that I move too fast to be seen. Even Dominique is sometimes confounded by my speed. And speed alone saved me, for I started moving when the air brushed my side -- air pushed ahead by the knife speeding towards my unprotected kidneys. Even so, it was close. I ducked and rolled and felt the blade burn down my ribs, felt blood running hot down my side.

I like to wear red 'cause it saves on the cleaning bill. Still, this night, vain fool that I am, I'd opted for a red dress trimmed in white fur, and I could just see that fur getting all stained. I can get the tear sewn up, but blood never comes out of fur.

What a bitch.

We grappled in the darkness, while the sweet strains of the saxophone played counterpoint to our struggle. He was strong, and startlingly fast, even drunk -- but he wasn't nearly as drunk as he should have been, and I realized he'd been playing the same game that I had, maybe emptying his drink when I wasn't looking, maybe sticking his finger down his throat during some of those frequent trips to the restroom. (A trick I'd never employ, of course; how filthy.)

Let's make a short story shorter: I killed him. Still, after twisting his knife around (still clutched in his hand) to slit his throat, and breaking his neck just to make sure, I didn't feel the sense of elation I'd been hoping for tonight.

On top of everything, I knew who to blame.

I pressed my hand to my side and reassured myself that it was only a flesh wound. Stupid, but not fatally stupid. Even in the dimness, I could see that my white fur was quite ruined.

Midvalley, you complete _freak,_ I will kill you for this.

He was still playing by the time I made my way downstairs, controlling my body's inclination to limp through exquisite attention to the tension of the muscles in my thighs, the amount of time I rested my weight on each leg. I felt lightheaded.

"Hornfreak!"

He never paused, never looked my way. It was late and the saloon mostly empty. The few regulars still slumped over their stools were too sloshed to notice me dripping blood on the floor as I made my way toward the Hornfreak. The bartender glanced at me, and looked away hastily, polishing a glass fit to break it. Proprieters of places the Gung-ho Guns like to frequent are not an inquisitive lot.

"Hornfreak! Goddammit, Midvalley--"

The last strains of the saxophone quivered into the night and Midvalley lowered it from his lips, his eyes opening slowly. He looked down at me from the height of the stage.

"How rude, Elendira. You know a musician never stops playing in the middle of a song."

"Fuck your music."

Midvalley raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're in a fine mood tonight. Have a little trouble upstairs?"

"You know I did. You bastard. You introduced me to that guy. You set me up."

Midvalley shrugged.

"I thought your game might be getting a little boring. Thought I'd do you a favor and give you a fun new toy to play with."

"You idiot. He almost killed me."

"I thought you'd appreciate the challenge."

"I don't appreciate being dead, you fool."

Midvalley laughed. "Elendira, dear, if a two-bit assassin with a buckknife can land his blade on the Crimsonnail, then I think the lesson was in order, don't you?"

He was right, though knowing that did little good for my temper. I fingered the bloodstained white fur pointedly. "You owe me a new dress."

"What's wrong with the other forty-three dresses you have?"

"It's the principle," I snapped. "And you are exaggerating. I have a perfectly -- reasonable amount of luggage, thanks."

I hoped he hadn't noticed that little pause. My head was swimming in the heat and smoke of the bar. I leaned my hip against the stage, unobtrusively I hoped, but Midvalley doesn't miss much. He crouched down on the stage, bringing his eyes closer to mine.

"You okay, El? How deep a hit did he score on you?"

"Nothing I can't handle." I licked my lips and looked up at him. I've always known that Midvalley has very pretty eyes; in my current state, they were more intoxicating than the alcohol had been. "We could go upstairs, if you'd like to find out."

Midvalley snorted. "Sorry, El. You're not exactly my type, y'know."

I shrugged, schooling my face blank against the sharp pain in my side. "In that case, guess I'll turn in ... You don't have any more nasty surprises in my hotel room, do you?"

He grinned. "If I tell you, wouldn't that spoil the surprise?"

"Bastard," I gritted, and made for the door with deliberate slowness.

Outside, I looked up and down the street for passersby before leaning against the wall. Damn! My fingers were all sticky, and I looked down to find myself standing in a slowly spreading red pool. If I'd stayed in there any longer, I would probably have collapsed in a heap on the floor. Maybe I should find a doctor, after all.

Fuck that. Midvalley's right. If a cheap assassin can hurt Elendira the Crimsonnail that badly, then it's time to hang up my spikes and marry some geoplant engineering geek and have forty kids -- which is to say, hell has summarily frozen over.

I got myself together again and walked down the street to our hotel. Yes, that's right, the Gung-ho Guns stay in hotels just like everyone else. You think we like sleeping in a cactus and getting sand up our butts? Well, maybe _some_ of us do; Monav probably puts cactus in his bed just for the thrill, and as for Zazzie -- that boy is _not_ normal. But I prefer my beauty sleep. Insomnia gives you premature wrinkles, and do you have any idea what the sun does to naturally fair skin like mine?

I didn't limp on that walk down the street because the Gung-ho Guns are about as paranoid a bunch as they come, and I'd lay odds somebody or other was watching out the blank, dark windows of that hotel. Showing weakness in front of them -- you may as well pour blood in a tankful of sand sharks. Oh, sure, we hang together, we Gung-ho Guns, but you'd better believe that some of us are on top and some aren't, and I plan to be on top for quite some time to come.

I took the usual precautions upon entering my room: duck away from the door as it opened, wait, peek in, wait, slip around the door, check all the corners (even under the bed) and finally bolt the door shut. I'd left the window open as usual, and some sand was drifted on the bed. I brushed it off, and lit a lamp on the dresser.

Man, I looked like crap. White as a sheet, dark smears on my face where I'd forgotten and touched my cheek or chin with blood-stained hands. No wonder Midvalley'd expressed concern. I peeled off my dress real slow, wincing every step of the way, and not just from the pain. That white ruff, the one I'd coveted in the store window in May City, the one I'd spent so much of _my money_ for, was completely ruined. Midvalley owed me a new dress _and_ a new stole, I decided. Damned if he was getting off easy from this one.

I couldn't see the wound very well, what with all the blood and gore, so I poured some water into a bowl from the washbasin and started sponging myself down. My underwear was ruined, too, I found. The knife had slashed through some of the bindings holding my chest together. What a pain; I'd have to completely redo it. Hell, I was lucky my boobs hadn't slipped down to my waist on that walk to the hotel. I undid the bindings with one hand and let out a sigh of relief as the falsies came away, revealing my _much_ flatter natural chest beneath. I could finally breathe again. Well, sorta. It still hurt a bit.

When I'd cleaned away enough blood to see, I found that the bleeding had already slowed on its own. The cut was broad but not too deep. Probably glanced off a rib, judging from the ache when I drew a breath. I washed it clean, smeared on some ointment that Midvalley swears by (stuff smells dreadful, but I've seen it kill infection, so I grit my teeth and use it anyway when I have to), and bound myself up.

That felt much better, though I didn't think I'd be sleeping for a while yet. I was stripped to my skivvies, but the night chill had not driven off the midsummer heat, and I felt comfortable. I unpinned my hair one piece at a time, and the platinum-blond strands fell down around my shoulders. I love my hair. A lot of guys can't seem to grow long, thick hair like mine. Falsies I can deal with, but if I had to wear a wig I'd simply die.

I limped to the window, unafraid, in private, to yield a little to my pain. The street below was quiet, and the moons rode full in the sky. I listened for saxophone music, but didn't hear it, and after a time I saw Midvalley emerge from the saloon, his sax tucked away in a case under his arm. I knew from experience how he could drop the case and have it open and the saxophone, fully assembled, to his lips before you could even blink. We all have our talents, we Gung-ho Guns.

Midvalley paused in the moonlight and looked up at my window. I fancied that his lips quirked a trifle in his closed, sardonic smile, though of course I couldn't tell at this distance. I smiled back, just a bit. Then he turned away, and went the other way, down the street, vanishing at last into the moon shadows.

An odd duck, Midvalley. I mean, none of us could precisely be called sane by the most charitable observer, but Midvalley's possibly the one who could pass most easily for a normal man. Most of the people who hear him play have no idea that they've just escaped death by the skin of their teeth. He's very good. I heard he used to be a musician ... before. I wonder what Legato offered him that sent him into this darkness. I wonder if what he got was worth it.

An offer from Legato is not an honor one refuses.

Well... one man tried.

My eyes lifted to the distant horizon and my thoughts wandered... not to Vash the Stampede, the man we were destined to kill -- but rather, to the traitor Chapel. I have never met him. I hope the honor of his death goes to me.

I licked my lips in anticipation.


End file.
